But now he had more important things on his mind. Things that he could hardly believe. He couldn’t shut the image of the woman in the woods out of his head. As he walked back out of the house and headed for the team’s quarters, he was playing the events over again and again.
It’s impossible.
But maybe some things that were impossible were real.
He walked into the communal living space and met a dead silence from the others. He went to his room and locked the door behind him. In the en-suite bathroom he stripped off his dirty clothes and left them strewn on the tiles as he showered. He turned the water up hot, on full blast so that the force of it stung his skin. His neck and shoulders were aching with pent-up tension, and he rotated them under the pounding water to relax the muscles. It didn’t work.
It’s just not possible, he kept thinking.
He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and dried himself off, then wrapped it around his waist and started making his way into the bedroom. Then he stopped. Looked down. The kidnappers’ pistol was lying among the dirty clothes on the floor. He snatched it up, stared at it for a moment, wondering what to do with it, then carried it through to the bedroom and tossed it on the bed, deciding to drop it into Dorenkamp’s office on his way out. Let them deal with the damn thing.
He changed into his black jeans and black T-shirt, pulled on his shoes and his battered old leather jacket, found his cigarettes and the familiar shape of his Zippo in the jacket pocket and started to feel a bit more like himself again - though not much. Then he stuffed the dirty clothes into a plastic bag, packed up the few things he’d brought with him and headed for the door.
A lot had happened in the last couple of hours. It was just after three in the afternoon. If he hurried, he could be home at Le Val before midnight.
As he came out of his room, there was a reception committee waiting for him. Neville seemed to have assumed control of the group. He was standing there with his arms crossed, feet planted apart, a scowl on his face.
‘Oi, you,’ he said as Ben went by.
Ben kept going, eyes front, aiming for the front door.
‘Oi. Talking to you, you fucking piece of shit.’
Ben stopped with his hand on the door handle. Hung his head. Breathed out through his nose. Turned round to face them.
‘We want words with you,’ Neville said.
Woodcock was standing behind him, staring at Ben over his leader’s shoulder. On the other side of Neville, there was a sneer on Morgan’s face that said, ‘You’re in deep shit now, buddy boy.’
‘You and us, outside,’ Neville said. ‘Now.’
Ben slowly set down his case. Reached into his pocket and took out the cigarettes and lighter. Picked out a cigarette, put it to his lips, thumbed the Zippo and lit up. He took his time blowing out the smoke. Then asked, ‘Me and you lot outside? What for?’
‘So that we can express our thanks to you for losing our fucking jobs for us,’ Neville said. Woodcock laughed. Morgan just kept up the sneer. Burton, Powell and Jackson were nodding in agreement.
Ben took another drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling. ‘I don’t think that would be a very wise idea,’ he said. ‘There’s already one of you in the hospital.’
‘Fucking smartarse,’ Neville spat.
‘You can’t smoke in here, shithead,’ Powell said, pointing at the cigarette.
Ben gave him a long, calm look and held it until the guy broke eye contact. He took another pull on the cigarette and savoured the taste of it. Then let out another cloud of smoke.
The alarm went off with a piercing electronic blast.
Ben looked up at it. It was right over the heads of the men. Just a little white plastic disc screwed to the ceiling, no bigger in diameter than an espresso saucer, but the volume of the furious, eardrum-rattling shriek it emitted was wildly, ridiculously disproportionate to its size. It sounded like a squadron of Tornado jet fighters taking off inside the room.
Ben frowned up at the alarm for about half a second, then reached his hand behind his hip. Drew out the kidnappers’ Beretta and brought it up to aim, thumbing off the safety and squeezing the trigger almost simultaneously.
9mm Parabellum is not the biggest, fastest or most potent handgun calibre in the world, but the sound of an unsilenced round going off in an enclosed space is massive and stunning. The harsh bark of the gunshot swallowed the scream of the alarm, and – an indetectably tiny fraction of a second later – the copper-jacketed bullet blew the white disc, the circuit-board and miniature speaker into a million pieces of plastic and silicone and solder. Ben kept firing as fast as his finger could move – BLAM-BLAM-BLAM – so that the blasting shots almost blended into one continuous detonation, like a length of high-explosive demolition cord going off.
By the time he’d stopped firing, Ben had pumped out half the magazine. Plaster dust and pieces of ceiling and the shattered remains of the alarm rained down onto the heads of the team. Morgan was cowering with his hands over his ears. Neville blinked and spluttered, his hair and face white with dust.
Suddenly there was silence in the room, just the ringing in Ben’s ears that made the coughs and yells of the men sound muffled and distant.
‘Cathartic,’ he said. He flung the half-empty pistol on the floor at their feet, snatched up his case and walked out of the building.
Outside, the sun was still warm.
He turned his face up to the sky. ‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.’
It didn’t take long to hunt down Dieter and get the key to the Mini from him. Ben walked over to the château’s garage block and found his car squeezed up next to the boxy hulk of a brand new Rolls. He hit a button on the wall to open up the steel shutter, got in the Mini and left a long, deep pair of tyre ruts across the gravel. He didn’t glance back once in the rearview mirror as he left the Steiner place behind.
Then it was the long journey home. And he’d thought he was preoccupied on the way out to Switzerland. As he pushed the car on hard and fast, the thoughts swirled furiously round inside his head.
What was wrong with him? Was this some kind of mid-life crisis hitting? Was he losing his edge at last?
Maybe Rupert Shannon had been right. Maybe the best place for him was behind a desk, marking time until he became just another double-chinned, bloodshot-eyed, cigar-chewing businessman with his gut hanging out over his lap, arteries more furred up than a chinchilla coat and a resting heart-rate of a hundred and fifty beats a minute. The well-trodden road to an early death. Perhaps that was all he was good for.
But the thought that was lodged in his head more than any other – spinning round and round like a pinball as the miles flew by, long after he’d passed back over the Swiss border and was heading westwards across France – was of the woman.
Thinking the same thing over and over again. Round and round, getting louder and more bewildering with every passing mile.
It couldn’t be true. And yet …
He gripped the wheel tightly as he drove, as though somehow by holding on he wouldn’t lose his grip on reality. But he was scared that he was.
So scared that he was shaking. So scared, that he could hardly bring himself to dredge up out of the dark corners of his memory the things that had happened all those years ago. The events that had changed his life and shaped his whole destiny.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sometime after Paris, the first raindrop spattered out of the darkness onto his windscreen. By the time he reached Normandy, around eleven, his headlights were cutting a twin swathe through the hammering rain and the road was slick and shiny.
Rainwater was cascading off the roofs of the buildings at Le Val and streaming across the cobbled yard as Ben pulled up outside the farmhouse. On a normal night, in a normal mood, he might have run to the door to avoid getting soaked by the deluge. Tonight wasn’t a normal night. He didn’t care enough to hurry, and his hair and jacket were dripping wet as he walked inside the door and dumped
his case in the hall.
He was about to head for the stairs and the sanctuary of his private apartment when he heard what sounded like a movie playing and noticed the flickering strip of light under the door of the living room down the hall. He walked down the hall, opened the door and stepped inside.
Two faces turned as he walked in. Brooke and Jeff, sitting among heaps of cushions at opposite ends of the three-seater sofa. The lights were off, and the big TV screen threw shadows across the room. Looked like some kind of vampire movie, loud and colourful and bloody. The table in front of Jeff was littered with beer cans. Brooke had a steaming mug of something. Cocoa was her favourite, and she had that homely way of clutching it with both hands.
It was good to see them again.
‘What are you guys watching?’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Jeff said, shocked.
Brooke was staring at him. ‘You’re drenched.’
‘It’s raining,’ Ben said.
Jeff snatched up the remote and paused the DVD. A big open red-fanged mouth was frozen on the screen. ‘Why aren’t you in Switzerland?’
‘Job’s over,’ Ben said.
Jeff made a face. ‘What are you going on about?’
Ben walked over to the sofa and sat down heavily between them. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Brooke said.
‘I’m surprised Shannon’s gunslinger of a lawyer hasn’t called yet. First thing in the morning, I expect we’ll be hearing from him.’
Jeff and Brooke both looked baffled.
‘Remember what I said to Shannon about being sent home in disgrace?’ Ben said. ‘Well, that’s pretty much what’s happened to me.’
He spent the next few minutes explaining the events of that afternoon, with just a few minor omissions. He didn’t tell them about the woman in the woods. He felt guilty about lying to his friends – but there was no way he could admit the whole truth.
As he talked them through it, he could see the deepening frown on Brooke’s face and the darkening flush of anger on Jeff’s.
‘Let me get this right,’ Jeff said. ‘You save the old bugger’s arse, and then he gives you the boot just because you, completely on your own, can’t stop a whole team of armed kidnappers from legging it back to their van? Maybe if he’d taken your fucking advice about the choppers—’
‘Anyway, what happened, happened,’ Ben interrupted quickly. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it now. Just one thing I need to do, and this whole nightmare will be over.’
‘What do you need to do, Ben?’ Brooke asked quietly.
‘The only thing I can. Pay Shannon off.’
Even in the dim light of the screen, Jeff’s face went distinctly pale. ‘Pay Shannon off?’ he echoed.
Ben nodded. ‘Every penny.’
‘That’s one point two million,’ Jeff exploded.
‘I know how much it is.’
Jeff gaped. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I messed up,’ Ben said. ‘Now I have to pay the price.’
‘We’ll take this to court,’ Jeff protested. ‘Unfair dismissal. Steiner’s put us in this position.’
‘It can’t get to court,’ Ben said. ‘Even if we won, we’d never survive the bad publicity. And if we lost, we’d end up paying legal costs on top of everything else. There’s no other choice.’
‘This is nuts,’ Jeff muttered. ‘Absolutely nuts.’
Brooke was watching Ben anxiously. Her drink sat cooling on the table in front of her.
‘You’re talking about an awful lot of money, Ben.’
‘More than the business can afford,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll have to take out a mortgage on Le Val, or go to the bank and beg for a loan. Scrape it together, somehow. Then we hand it over to Shannon, and we move on.’ He tried to smile and look optimistic. He knew it wasn’t a convincing act.
‘What if you can’t raise that much?’ Brooke asked.
Ben shrugged. The answer was obvious, and the look on Brooke’s face told him that she’d known it even before she’d finished asking the question.
‘Then we’ll have to sell up,’ he said quietly. Hearing the words out loud was almost more than he could bear.
The three of them sat there in silence. Jeff looked thunderstruck, and Ben knew what he was thinking. Le Val was just as much home to Jeff now as it was to him. If it had to go on the market, all the work they’d both put into it would be lost. And all just to pay off shit like Rupert Shannon.
Jeff stood up. His face was tight.
‘I’m sorry, Jeff.’
‘It’s not your doing, mate,’ Jeff said. There was emotion in his voice. He turned to leave the room. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered.
Then he was gone, and Ben and Brooke were left alone.
‘I think I’ll turn in too,’ she said, getting up. ‘Though I doubt if I’ll get any sleep tonight. Not now.’
‘I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to get pissed out of my mind.’
She smiled. ‘Come to think of it, that sounds like a very good idea. Mind if I join you?’
‘Be my guest. There’s enough wine on the rack to kill both of us.’
It was cold up in Ben’s quarters, and he arranged kindling sticks and a couple of dry logs in the fireplace while Brooke filled a couple of glasses of wine. She sat cross-legged on the big soft rug next to the hearth, watching him. ‘You’re a pretty good firelighter,’ she commented.
‘I ought to be.’ In a minute or so the blaze was crackling up the chimney, and he settled next to her on the rug. She handed him a glass.
‘What can you drink to on a night like this?’ she said.
‘Here’s to good old Saint Geneviève,’ Ben said, raising his glass.
‘Who’s Saint Geneviève?’
‘The patron saint of complete and utter disasters and fuck-ups. An old friend of mine.’ He downed his wine. Reached for the bottle and refilled the glass.
They drank in silence as the rain lashed against the windows, and watched the flames curl and lick around the logs in the fireplace. Ben knocked the wine back hard and fast.
‘We need another bottle,’ he said. ‘Or two.’
‘So soon?’
‘I mean business.’ He started clambering to his feet. ‘I’ll go down for it,’ she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and standing up. ‘I’ve just had an idea.’
‘What idea?’
‘A brilliant one.’
He tossed a couple more logs on the fire while she was gone, poked them around so that orange sparks flew up the chimney, and felt the heat on his face. After a few minutes Brooke returned, balancing two more bottles on a tray along with a plate and a covered platter.
‘So this is your brilliant idea,’ he said.
She took the lid from the platter. ‘Marie-Claire’s famous chocolate gâteau.’ She sat down beside him, laid the tray on the rug in front of them. He quickly opened the second bottle. As he poured their glasses, she dipped a fork into the cake and ate some. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight.
‘God, this is good.’ She loaded up another forkful and carried it towards his mouth.
He clamped his lips shut, shook his head. ‘I don’t like sweets much. You eat it.’
‘Help you soak up all this booze.’
‘I don’t want to soak it up. Defeats the object. What I want is for it to get into my bloodstream and circulate round to my brain, as quickly and efficiently as possible. What’s the point otherwise?’
‘Come on, Ben. You really must eat some of this. It’s a secret family recipe. People round here have gone to war for it. To have it offered to you and not eat it is a sacrilege. An insult to the gods.’
He smiled and put down his glass. ‘OK, you persuaded me. It wouldn’t do to offend the gods.’
‘Definitely not.’ She held the fork up to his mouth. He opened it, and she fed the cake to him. He drew away, sliding the piece off the fork with his teeth. Chewed once, p
aused, chewed again and swallowed. It tasted rich and creamy. Cognac and almonds and home-churned butter. A hint of coffee in there somewhere, and traces of flavours he could only guess at.
‘You’re right. It is pretty damn good.’
‘Have another bit,’ she said. ‘It’s the ultimate in comfort eating.’
‘In that case, maybe just another bit.’
‘Let’s just chocolate ourselves to death,’ she said. ‘Right here, right now.’
He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Fuck it. Why not?’
She fed him another forkful, and then had another herself.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘This was a brilliant idea.’
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames. Then Brooke turned towards him to say something.
‘Hold on,’ he said, interrupting her. Raised his finger and moved it towards her face. ‘You’ve got a bit of cream right there.’ He gently wiped it from the corner of her mouth, then carried it back towards his own mouth and licked his finger. ‘You were about to say something,’ he said.
She looked blank. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Getting there.’
But it didn’t matter that they didn’t say much. Ben was thankful for the companionship. Brooke was someone he felt relaxed around and could comfortably share a silence with. Her presence made him feel better. He could smell her subtle perfume, and the fresh apple scent of shampoo when her hair brushed near his face. It made him think of sunshine, summer meadows, nice things that seemed to belong in some inaccessible parallel world.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said eventually. The chocolate cake was finished now, the empty plate and the fork between them on the rug.
‘What don’t you get?’
‘You and Rupert Shannon.’
Brooke sighed.
‘What do you see in the guy?’
‘You mean, what did I see in the guy?’
‘Past tense?’
‘Very past tense. It’s over.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since when do you think? Since all this happened. I don’t like the way he’s behaved. I think it’s disgusting, and I told him so at the hospital.’
The Shadow Project Page 11